


The Least Difficult of Men

by chrundletheokay



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Candy Canes, Coffee, Eating Disorders, Fluff, French Toast, Hot Cocoa, I'm So Soft For These Two, M/M, and then curling up for a nap together under the dumpster i guess, but overall it is trying to be very soft in spite of it all, canon typical fat shaming, flannel pjs, it's what they deserve, note about the ED trigger warning: dennis is really sick so this may be triggering, post season 13 charden for the soft bastard's soul, soft charden content, the boys are out of town, the gang stays at an airbnb, these two are soft for each other like two feral cats fighting behind a dumpster, three magic words
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-01-22 21:43:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18536065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrundletheokay/pseuds/chrundletheokay
Summary: There's insomnia, ghouls, and candy canes at the airbnb. And there's Charlie and Dennis, and the usual insults they throw back and forth at each other. And pillow talk.And in the morning, there will be Vermont maple syrup, and French toast that wasn't grilled on a radiator.It's gross, but maybe they're going soft in their old age.





	The Least Difficult of Men

**Author's Note:**

> [TW: eating disorder talk***, vague references to past sexual assault (see: "The Gang Escapes"), canon-typical drug use/abuse]
> 
>  
> 
> ***if you'd like more details about possible ED triggers — Lots of weight talk. Canon-typical fat-shaming. Lots of food talk, including inaccurate / disordered statements about specific food groups. No specific ED behaviors or numbers are discussed.
> 
> (Dennis is an idiot. Don't take nutrition advice from him. Or Charlie, for that matter.)

Dennis fluffs up his pillow and rolls over for what feels like the billionth time.

The flannel sheets smell of vanilla and cinnamon. Even with his eyes closed, it's impossible to pretend he’s home, wrapped up safe in his soft Egyptian cotton sheets with their comforting, familiar scent.

The Vermont countryside is too quiet. Just like in the suburbs, the silence is paradoxically more disruptive than the familiar city noises of South Philly. The walls of the quaint old cottage periodically creak and shift. It startles Dennis every time, sending his heart racing for a brief moment, until he tells himself off for being an idiot.

Frank is snoring out in the living room. The door barely muffles the intolerable, grating noise.

_We’ve been working so hard_ , Dee had told Frank a few days prior. _Don’t you think we deserve a vacation?_

Frank snorted and burst out laughing. _Yeah, right,_ he'd grunted.

But Dee swayed him with bullshit and flattery, pressing all the right buttons. _C'mon,_ she'd cajoled him. _You've been working harder than anyone, Frank. After all, who got the cops off our back last week when they came by, looking for that missing llama?_

All told, it took Dee less than five minutes to convince Frank to pay for the whole trip.

By the next day, she had planned an itinerary and booked them an Airbnb.

And now here Dennis is, in the middle of goddamn nowhere, Vermont; in a tacky, shabby chic country cottage; listening to Frank’s disgusting snoring out in the living room, where he is, no doubt, sleeping ass-to-ass on the pullout couch with Charlie.

This was a mistake.

Dennis won’t check the time; he doesn't want to know. His hips and shoulders dig painfully into the mattress. Once again, he turns over onto his other side.

Just then, the door creaks open suddenly. Dennis sits bolt upright, his heart pounding away in his chest.

“Dennis,” whispers a familiar voice: Charlie. “Dude, you up?”

Dennis huffs out a frustrated sigh, willing his heart rate to go back to normal. “Obviously."

“Sweet.” Charlie closes the door behind himself. As he scrambles over toward the queen-size bed, his voice gets louder and slightly frantic. “Dude, listen, you’re not gonna believe this, but—”

“Charlie, it’s the middle of the goddamn night,” he hisses. “What do you want?”

“Ghouls, man,” Charlie states plainly.

Before Dennis can tell him off, or tell him to _fuck off_ , Charlie crawls into bed and flops down dramatically onto the pillow next to Dennis.

Wide-eyed and alert, he continues rambling: “I’m telling you, dude, there are ghouls in this place. I swear, I saw one. Well, I heard it really, but that’s practically the same thing. They’re crawling around in the walls, I think. Like rats, you know?”

Dennis covers his face with his hands and counts to ten before he allows himself to say anything.

“No, Charlie. Come on, man,” he says when he’s no longer fantasizing about slapping Charlie or shoving him out of the bed. “It’s just the foundation shifting. Or the building settling, or whatever.”

“You don’t know that,” Charlie argues vehemently. “It could be ghouls! You have no way of knowing for sure.”

Dennis rolls his eyes. “I _do_ know that for sure. And I swear to Christ, dude, I’m not having a conversation about ghouls with you.”

“No, but Frank is out for the night! Like, he’s dead to the world, bro, I’m telling you." Charlie’s voice is picking up in volume and pitch as he grows more frantic. He's talking far too fast to allow Dennis an opening to cut in. "He took a shit ton of codeine, so it’s gonna be _at least_ fifteen hours. And the ghouls, dude! And the noises are all wrong, like there aren’t any cats outside the window howling at me, and it smells way too clean, and—”

At last, Charlie pauses long enough to take a deep, shuddering breath in.

“Alright, alright. Settle down,” Dennis interrupts, in a firm voice, and he reaches out to pat Charlie reassuringly on the shoulder.

Hopefully, this situation doesn’t escalate to the point where he has to shout _oi! oi! oi!_ to get through to Charlie. If they wake up Dee in the middle of the night again, she might literally murder them. (Or, at the very least, squawk and cause serious bodily harm.)

“No, but it’s like—” Charlie shrugs Dennis’s hand off, and grasps onto the soft flannel sheets, as if desperate for something concrete to tether him to reality. “I don’t have the cat food, beer, and glue. And it turns out it’s not just the cats howling that keeps me up at night, so it’s like… how am I supposed to sleep?” he whines.  “And my pajamas, dude! These things are fuckin’ ridiculous! It's like I keep getting tangled up in them.”

At that, Charlie sits up and tugs at the oversized, flannel button-up hanging off his shoulders.

"See?" he hisses, and he proceeds to wave his hands around frantically, as if to demonstrate the indignity of his situation. The sleeves are too long and baggy, and his movement sends them flopping around his forearms. The pant legs are just as bad — Mac had to roll them up at the bottom, deliberately ignoring the way Charlie grumbled and scowled down at him as he worked.

(The Airbnb host had stopped by that morning to check on them. She took one look at Charlie, who was still lounging around in his ratty, old long johns; and she’d exclaimed, _Oh, you poor thing_. _You’ll catch your death of cold, dressed like that!_ When the gang returned from brunch, a brand new set of pajamas was waiting for Charlie. Personally, Dennis thought it was overbearing — not to mention pathetic — to go so far above and beyond what was necessary or expected from a host. It was obviously a desperate ploy to get good reviews or awards for her air bnb, and who needs that shit, anyway?

(Besides, the stupid pajamas are a couple sizes too big, anyway. It's like she thought Charlie was a quarterback for the goddamn Eagles, rather than a 5'6" janitor.)

“Why’d Dee have to burn my pajamas?” Charlie continues whining. “She’s _your_ sister. You should’ve stopped her, you goddamn asshole.”

Finally, his complaints seemingly exhausted, Charlie dramatically throws himself back against the pillow with a loud sigh.

“Dude, are you crazy?" Dennis demands incredulously. "If Dee’s playing with fire, I want nothing to do with it. We all know what happened to the last bitch who got in her way; I’m not making the same mistake.”

Charlie rolls over onto his side, and looks at Dennis, wide-eyed and solemn. “I just… I think this vacation was a mistake, bro. I think we never shoulda left Philly. It’s like, bad things only happen when we leave Philly,” Charlie concludes, low and quiet.

Dennis once again contemplates throwing Charlie back out into the living room, to pester Frank, in the old man's drug-induced stupor.

“It’s fine, okay?” he says instead. “It’s gonna be fine. Just… stay quiet. You can stay here, but just—Calm down, alright? You’re gonna wake everyone up. And no more talking about ghouls; I’m serious, Charlie. It’s the middle of the goddamn night, and I’ve long since met my lifetime quota of ghoul talk with you.”

Charlie frowns, his lower lip sticking out dramatically. “Fine,” he agrees after a moment. With that, he snuffles and burrows down deeper into the pillow, tugging the quilt up higher around his shoulders.

Just as Dennis begins searching for a stupid joke or inane comment to break the silence, Charlie does it for him: “How come you’re not sleeping either?”

“I dunno. Just one of those things, I guess,” Dennis replies vaguely.  He shifts a little, and adjusts his pillow slightly. It’s still not quite comfortable.

But curled up in bed facing Charlie, in the silence that hangs between them, a familiar feeling floats to the surface of his mind. It’s the distant yet almost palpable feeling of being in his twenties again, with Charlie. He remembers being warm and safe, the smell of pot lingering in the air, their stomachs full of shoplifted junk food, their minds buzzing with plans to open the hottest bar in South Philly. Back then, they were young and stupid and carefree. The possibilities were endless, and the future was open before them.

It’s not the same anymore. Dennis won’t let himself consider whether that’s a good or a bad thing.

He closes his eyes, desperate to shift his attention away from the embarrassing sentiment and nostalgia, before it has a chance to show on his face.

Even with his eyes closed, he feels Charlie watching closely. And then, Charlie’s fingers are brushing lightly across his face, just over his cheekbone.

Dennis consciously forces his breathing to stay even. It’s strange and unnerving being handled this lightly; none of his sketchy craigslist hookups ever did this. But then again, that was the entire point.

“Huh,” says Charlie, as he withdraws his hand. “Weird. It doesn’t even hurt.”

When Dennis opens his eyes, Charlie is still examining him. But there's a puzzled expression on his face now.

“Of course not,” Dennis responds automatically. “Hang on, why would it hurt?”

Charlie screws up his face in apparent concentration. “I dunno. It’s just, like, a thing I heard one of the waitress ladies saying at the diner before," he explains uncertainly. "That, like, your cheekbones are so sharp or pointy or whatever, that they could cut something. Glass, I think? I dunno. It was weird.”

It’s confusing, the way those words make Dennis’s stomach turn and his heart pick up speed again. He wanted to lose weight. He wanted people to notice. Right?

Then why doesn’t this feel good?

“But it doesn’t even hurt,” Charlie continues, his voice low, tinged with confusion. “Not even a little. ‘Course, my hand’s not glass, so maybe that’s why.”

“It’s a figure of speech, Charlie. They didn’t mean it literally.” Dennis speaks deliberately, slowly, in an attempt to keep his own voice steady and even. But he can’t help the way his breath catches in the back of his throat as Charlie’s fingers move to trace along his jawline.

Finally, Charlie pulls his hand back and tucks it under his pillow.

“How come you’re so small?” he asks, with a note of suspicion creeping in.

Dennis doesn’t want to be having this conversation. Still, at least doing it with Charlie is better than doing it with Mac, who would worry himself into a panic attack. Or Dee, who would mock him and fuck with his head until she’d convinced him he was fat. Or Frank, who would — without a doubt — say something incredibly bigoted or offensive, as is his wont.

“'Cause I eat healthy and exercise,” Dennis answers at last. As he says it, he forces himself to look directly into Charlie’s eyes, because avoiding eye contact is a sure sign of a lie.

Even in the dim light, he can see Charlie roll his eyes exaggeratedly. “No, I don’t mean—I mean _why_ are you like that, not _how_. I don’t care how. And that’s bullshit, by the way, dude. You know it, and I know it, too.”

Dennis is unsure of how to defend himself to Charlie, of all people. If it were Mac, it would be so easy a child could do it; Dennis would flip the accusations around and trigger Mac’s anger.  _What do you know about being thin?_ he'd ask.  _You gained sixty pounds and didn’t even notice how disgusting and fat you were_.

If it were Dee, he’d do something similar. He'd insult her body and appearance, calling her a gangly and unattractive bird; all the usual. He'd let it escalate to a screaming argument, until Dee was so pissed off she no longer cared about him enough to worry about his weight.

But Charlie is different. He doesn’t think about weight the way Dennis does, or the way Mac does. And he doesn’t realize the importance of maintaining one's appearance, like Dennis does, or like Dee does.

So rather than answer, Dennis decides he must clarify an important fact, first and foremost: “I’m not _that_ small.”

It feels crucial not to let that lie stand. Not when he still has so much weight left to lose. Not when there’s nothing wrong with him, or with his body, his weight, or his appearance.

“Yeah, you are," Charlie argues instantly, easily. "You’re, like, tiny.” The words come out of his mouth like they're nothing, like his assessment isn't turning Dennis's perception of himself completely upside down.

Charlie continues to search his face, as if looking for answers there. “Are you… Like, are you okay?” he questions hesitantly. “Am I allowed to ask that?”

It’s unlike Charlie to be cautious. He always dives in headlong, with no concern for consequences or nuance.

“Ask whatever you want, man,” Dennis replies dismissively, although he honestly wishes Charlie wouldn’t. “And I’m _fine_. Everything's fine.”

“Hmmm,” Charlie says, that one little sound enough to let on how unconvinced he is. “Does it hurt?”

Exasperated, Dennis groans in response. “My cheekbones? No! Dude, I told you — it’s a figure of speech.”

Charlie finally looks away, down at the bit of quilt he's twisting around his fingers. “No, not that," he mutters. "I just mean you look really sick. And I just, like… Does it, y'know… Does it hurt?” Charlie's voice is barely audible at the end, which is unsettling coming from him.

Dennis doesn't know what answer to give, because the truth is that it does hurt. It hurts, and it feels like being sick — the way the sharp angles of his body dig painfully into the mattress at night when he tries to sleep. The way his vision goes black and his heart races when he stands. The way he wants to stop playing these insane mind games with food and eating and exercise. The way he keeps trying to stop, but doesn’t seem able to.

The way Charlie is the only who has asked, and the fact that it’s taken him this long to do it.

“Yeah,” Dennis finally admits on an exhale, “it doesn’t feel all that good.” He’s surprised at himself for being honest. Lying has always been the less painful option.

Charlie’s eyebrows draw together, and the corners of his mouth turn down with worry, but he remains silent. That’s okay, in its own way. It’s Charlie, and he’s not always great with words, so he probably doesn’t know what to say. But he asked, he’s listening, and he hasn’t recoiled in horror. That counts for a lot, as far as Dennis is concerned.

“Just… don’t tell Mac,” Dennis urges him. “You know how he gets sometimes.”

Charlie's face scrunches up even further at that. “Why would I? He’s not your mommy, Dennis; I’m not gonna tell on you.”

“Right. Good. Yeah,” Dennis agrees haltingly.

“Yeah,” Charlie repeats. “Tell him whatever you want, whenever. None of my business. I’m not getting involved in whatever shit you two have got going on. Plus, he probably already knows anyway.”

Dennis can feel his heart racing, his face heating up with embarrassment. H is defense of himself comes out as an entirely unconvincing stammer: “Dude, shut up. Mac isn't—We’re not—It's not like that, okay? It's—You know what? I’m done talking about this."

Dennis rolls over onto his back. It’s not any more comfortable, but at least now he has the blue shadows creeping across the ceiling to examine, rather than being confronted with Charlie's unsettling gaze.

The silence between them doesn’t feel comfortable, either. He thinks once more about kicking Charlie out of his bedroom.

After a minute that feels more like a year, Charlie breaks the silence. “So skiing tomorrow, huh,” he asks eagerly. “You gonna break your ankles again, or what?”

“That was a one-off, and you know it,” Dennis huffs.

“Yeah, but see, I’m thinking that even if you don’t break your ankles, like… You’re so tiny, a strong breeze is gonna catch you and send you blowing away down the mountain.”

“Dude, that’s not even physically possible. Babies way a shit ton less than me. Have you ever seen a baby blow away in the wind?”

“No, but I’ve seen one get carried away by a hawk,” Charlie answers, as if that would be in any way relevant, were it true. “Anyway, it’s all about the surface area to weight ratio, right? A baby’s light, for sure. But even the chubby ones are _small_ , so they don’t got a lot of surface area to catch the breeze. You’re all tall and gangly, though, so you’re gonna get more wind resistance or whatever. But you’re light, too, like a baby. Or maybe a kite. _Oh!_ Or like a bird, dude. Family resemblance, and shit.”

“Are you done?” snaps Dennis, entirely unimpressed by Charlie’s misunderstanding of the laws of physics and nature. “‘Cause if you’re just gonna lie there all night calling me ugly, you can go back out to the sofa with Frank and the ghouls.”

“What? I didn’t say that. All I said is that you’re skinny, which is totally true! Anyway, you know I don’t think you’re ugly.”

He turns back over to face Charlie, so that he can glare at him properly. “How the hell would I know that? All you’ve done tonight is shit all over me.”

“No, but I’ve told you before, remember?” Charlie seems genuinely baffled and surprised by his anger.

“No," Dennis insists. "I’d remember something like that.”

“It was like… I dunno, it wasn’t long after we opened Paddy’s, and you and I were all… _whatever_.” Charlie makes a vague, wavy hand gesture, which is about as well-defined as their relationship had been at the time.  “It was like… around then,” he concludes with a little half-shrug.

That takes a moment to sink in fully. They haven’t so much as _mentioned_ it in years, not since the last time they got high together and made out in the back office.

“Charlie, that was like... ten or fifteen years ago,” Dennis exclaims at last.

Charlie’s eyebrows draw together, and he frowns. “So? My opinion hasn’t changed. I’d have let you know, probably.”

“Jesus, no wonder it didn’t work out between you and the Waitress. You’re like one of those assholes whose wife asks him for a divorce, and he’s all… ‘how can you say I don’t love you? I told you I loved you twenty years ago. What do you mean you need to hear it again?’" Dennis feels borderline-hysterical, rambling like this. Honestly, he doesn’t _need_ Charlie’s compliments. But he's imparting a valuable life lesson to Charlie here. "That’s—That’s you, Charlie. Isn’t it? That's what you're like.”

Charlie scrunches up his face in bewilderment, and he looks toward the ceiling as if the answer might be written up there. “I mean, not exactly,” he says slowly. “But, uh, like I said, I’ll update you if my feelings change.”

“Ugh. Whatever,” Dennis mutters.

Charlie obviously doesn’t see logic here, but there’s no sense in belaboring the point. Dennis rolls onto his back and to stare once more into the shadowy-blue expanse of ceiling.

“God, you’re so pissy sometimes,” Charlie gripes. “You’re really one of those dummies who needs to hear it all the time, huh?”

“ _No,_ ” Dennis fires back. “Whatever. I don’t _need_ _anything_ , okay? I’m a _god_ , Charlie. The Golden God does not need—”

Charlie presses a hand down over his mouth and up against his nose, cutting off the rest of his sentence. The palm of Charlie's hand is slightly sticky, and it smells minty.

“Stop it,” Charlie snaps. “Jesus, dude, I don’t care about that shit.”

If it were anyone else, Dennis might lick the palm of their hand, just to disgust them and piss them off. But it’s Charlie, who (a) wouldn’t care and (b) probably hasn’t washed his hands in about a week. Still, it would be easy to pull the hand off his face — Charlie isn't being forceful about it, just obnoxious and disrespectful as shit.

“Alright. Listen close, asshole, ‘cause I’m only gonna say this once. You hear me?” mutters Charlie as he leans in close.

It would also be easy to tell Charlie to fuck off, to kick him out of bed, or out of the bedroom entirely, as Dennis has considered doing countless times already. At least, it would be easy if it weren’t for the intent, focused look in Charlie's eyes.

So Dennis merely nods in silent agreement.

“Alright.” Charlie removes his hand at last, and continues searching Dennis face. Maybe he's searching for words, too.

Dennis licks his lips, which taste faintly of peppermint. It is, no doubt, residue from the candy canes that Charlie has been eating all day, grabbing one after another from the little glass container in the living room.

“Of course you’re pretty, Den," he murmurs at last. "So fucking gorgeous. _Still._ ”

Somehow, Dennis doesn’t think he could get his mouth to work, which is fine, because he doesn’t know what he’d say.

“You’re, like… You look _way_  better when you’re healthy or whatever, but…”

Dennis’s heart skips a few beats and he feels himself wince involuntarily at the words. With the way Charlie is closely examining him, he must have noticed, because he trails off mid-sentence and shakes his head slightly.

“You are, though... you're such a pretty boy.” There’s a pause, and then Charlie ducks his head down, averting his eyes, before continuing, low and hesitant. “And I still, like… Yeah, of course I love you, and shit. Alright?”

Dennis doesn’t give himself more than a millisecond to think about it before he’s grasping at Charlie, at his neck, at his face; tugging him back down to the pillows; and pressing his lips desperately to Charlie’s.

Charlie makes a surprised little noise against his mouth, but doesn’t pull back or push Dennis away. After a second, he’s kissing back. Another second, and he’s grasping at the front of Dennis’s t-shirt, his fingers stretching out the fabric, and his knuckles digging into Dennis’s chest.

If he’d been asked thirty minutes ago, Dennis would have denied being interested in making out with Charlie. Charlie almost certainly would have said the same thing.  Impulse control, however, has never been a virtue of theirs.

Luckily, it doesn’t matter all that much. One of the advantages of this thing with Charlie is that it’s never been particularly serious for either of them. It was fun when it was happening, but there weren't really any hurt feelings when it slowly came to an end. And if, every few years, they get high and impulsively make out, it still isn't a big deal.

Mac doesn’t need to know; the Waitress doesn’t need to know; it’s just the two of them.

For someone who doesn't do it often, and who claims to hate kissing, Charlie's always made it good.

“Wow, okay.” Charlie’s voice comes out quiet and hoarse afterward.

Tomorrow, they won't talk about this, and it'll still be fine. It’s nothing like the whole mess between Mac and Dennis.

As if reading his mind, Charlie whispers into the silence between them: “Don’t tell Mac. He’d kill me.”

Dennis wipes his mouth off on the back of his hand: it's definitely peppermint on Charlie's hands, and the taste of peppermint still inside his mouth. And thank god, because it could be so much worse, knowing him.

“Mac doesn’t own me,” he answers, his voice wavering slightly.

Charlie grins wryly. “No, you own _him_ , right?”

“I do not; that’s absurd,” Dennis insists. Charlie, however, does not appear convinced by this argument. “And anyway,” Dennis adds on, “if I do, it’s only because Mac wants it that way.”

He pointedly ignores the faint laugh, and the overly-dramatic way Charlie rolls his eyes at that. 

“You didn’t say it back, you know,” Charlie points out after a moment of silence.

Dennis chuckles nervously. “What, that you’re pretty?” He has a feeling that isn't really it. His heart flips uncomfortably in his chest at the thought.

“ _Nah,_ I don’t care so much about that. I mean, you can say it if you want to, but I meant the other thing. You’re supposed to say it back, right?”

It would be one thing to say: _Charlie, you’re handsome when you don’t look like you just crawled out of a sewer._ But to say the other—

Dennis can feel his throat closing up.

He scoots in closer, grasping onto the front of Charlie's plaid shirt, and pressing his nose to Charlie’s shoulder. The soft fabric still holds the generic, perfume-like scent of a department store. It’s familiar in the sense that department stores probably smell the same just about everywhere, but it’s definitely not Charlie-familiar. But again, perhaps that's a good thing.

“You alright there, buddy?” Charlie asks. The grin in his voice is audible, as he wraps an arm around Dennis and pats at his back almost condescendingly.

“I—Um. Yeah,” Dennis stammers, nonsensically. “I… Yeah.”

“Alright. Cool,” Charlie responds lightly. It’s as if he’s entirely unbothered by Dennis’s inability to repeat those three magic words back to him. “So listen… French toast, yes?”

Dennis blinks a few times, replaying the words in his head a few times. _French toast?_ Surely he misheard. With Charlie’s short attention span, he’s prone to rapid subject changes, but this is ridiculous, even for him.

“What?” Dennis manages at last.

“We've got this big ol’ kitchen all to ourselves, right? So I thought I’d try my hand at making French toast, on account of Dee says you don’t actually have to be French to make it. What d'you think? You in?”

Dennis draws in a breath, slowly, and tries to assemble his thoughts.

“Wow,” he exhales. “ _So_ many thoughts. Um, first: Of course you don’t have to be French. Why would you have to be French?”

In all honesty, his first thought is: _How can it not crush your entire world and make you want to curl up into a ball and die? Not hearing it back, not hearing it ever — how can it not destroy you? How can anyone move on so quickly and so easily?_

“Don't ask me. It’s in the name, bro. I’m not the one who named it, or discovered it, or whatever.”

“Uh- _huh_.”  It doesn’t seem worth arguing about further, in part because Dennis has no idea why French toast is actually called that.

He leans back to squint up at Charlie skeptically. The expression on Charlie's face seems earnest, genuine. It's nothing like his devious, scheming look.

“Okay, but are you seriously—We just had a big, long, melodramatic thing about—And you’re seriously asking me about food now?”

“Uh, yeah, dude," Charlie replies emphatically. "French toast is awesome. And I bet it's even more awesome when you cook it on a real stove instead of on a radiator.”

“Everything is better on a stove, Charlie, because you shouldn’t be cooking on a radiator to begin with.”

“That sounds like a bunch of capitalist fat cat talk to me, but irregardless _—_ ”

“Nope. That's not a word, man. It's just ‘regardless.’”

(It’s pointless to debate the merits of capitalism and food safety with Charlie, who literally eats food out of dumpsters and garbage bins.)

“Fine. _Just regardless_ ,” Charlie parrots, still incorrectly, “I’m gonna be making French toast tomorrow morning, and I think you should eat it, ‘cause I make some fuckin' awesome French toast.”

Dennis groans in frustration. “ _God._ You know eating French toast isn’t gonna fix me, right?”

“ _Fix_ you?" Charlie repeats, his voice jumping up an octave. "Who said anything about that?”

“Just checking,” Dennis says defensively.

“That’s dumb as shit, dude. I’ve seen you eat plenty of meals, and you’re still—” Charlie lets go of him long enough to gesture at him, narrowly missing Dennis's nose in the process “—y'know, like that.”

“Like that,” Dennis echoes. “Thanks, man. Thanks a lot.”

Still, it's ultimately a relief that he doesn't have to explain it.

“Whatever. I already told you you’re pretty. What more do you want from me?" Charlie says dismissively. His hand lands at Dennis's side, to play with the fabric of his t-shirt there. "Anyway, French toast is the perfect pre-skiing meal, and you know why? ‘Cause carbs make you go fast.”

“No, Charlie. Carbs make you _get fat_.”

“That’s stupid. Everyone eats carbs, and not everyone is fat. You need 'em to live. They're, like, one of the main food groups, right? It's like: carbs, sugars, cheese, uh… protein, and green stuff."

Not even close. Dennis doesn't know where to begin.

Unfortunately, Charlie isn't finished. "Plus? Dennis. _Dude._ Carbo-loading, yeah? Mac’s always going on about that shit. Like, what even is it? How’s it work? We don’t know, but it does work, apparently!” As he talks, he grows more excited and animated, and his voice gets louder and more high-pitched.

It really is a wonder that they haven't woken up Dee or Mac by now. These walls must be thicker and better-insulated than the ones in Dennis and Mac's apartment.

“Jesus Christ,” Dennis mutters. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in, holds it, and slowly releases it. He doesn’t feel calmer or less irritated. “Your poor understanding of nutrition aside, is it gluten-free? The bread?”

“Uh, _yeah,_ dude,” Charlie answers definitively. “I stole it from Aldi. Doesn’t get any more free than that.”

It was stupid to assume Charlie would understand what "gluten-free" means.

“Goddamnit,” Dennis sighs after a moment of frustrated consideration. “If I say yes, will you stop talking about food, so we can at least _pretend_ to sleep?”

“If you say yes, will you actually eat the French toast?” Charlie retorts immediately.

“ _Yes_ , okay?Yes.”

“Alright. See, I knew you weren’t just the looks of the operation. Like, I’m supposed to believe _Mac_ is the brains?” Charlie scoffs. “Yeah right. Anyway, you’re gonna like it, for sure. Carbs, French toast, maple syrup, sugar, butter — all the good stuff. It’s like—”

“Charlie,” he interrupts, because he’s exhausted and starving. The thought of food is making him a confusing mixture of ravenous, nauseated, and irritated. “Enough. Seriously. What did I just say?”

“Pretending to sleep. Right.”

“Thank you,” Dennis says pointedly. “Good.”

Charlie grumbles out an incoherent, annoyed agreement, but thankfully has the good sense not to say any more. He shifts around a bit, letting go of Dennis; he turns onto his back, and tugs the quilt up closer to his shoulders.

At last, Charlie lies silent.

His eyes, however, shift around the room warily. He doesn' t look any closer to falling asleep than he did when he first entered the bedroom, ranting about ghouls and cats and codeine. Dennis can see the tension he's holding in his body; just looking at it makes Dennis feel tense, too.

"C'mon, go to sleep, Charlie. It's fine," he says quietly.

At that, Charlie's gaze lands back on him.

In the lull between them, something nearby — a wall, or the ceiling, maybe — creaks quietly. Dennis's heart speeds up again. Wide-eyed with nerves, Charlie blinks a couple times, and frowns.

"It's fine," Dennis repeats.

He takes a deep breath. He doesn't allow himself much time to reconsider, before he shifts closer to rest his head on Charlie’s chest. It’s not like being young again, or careless or unafraid, but perhaps it's still a little reckless.

After a tense moment of wondering whether Charlie will push him away, an arm circles around Dennis’s back. He sighs into the soft flannel of the oversized pajamas below him, and wraps an arm snug around Charlie’s waist.

As he relaxes and closes his eyes, Charlie begins to slowly run his fingers through Dennis's curls.

It's fucking _perfect_.

No, it won’t keep nightmares away, or make his joints and limbs stop aching, or make this unfamiliar place smell or sound like home. And it won't take either of them back to a time when things felt easier, more hopeful, and less horrible. But it’s _something_.

In fact, it may be more than either of them deserve at this point.

Dennis should worry about the morning. He should worry about Dee catching Charlie slinking out of the master bedroom and laughingly calling the two of them gay. He should worry about Frank waking up from his drugged sleep and panicking, thinking that Charlie’s been eaten by ghouls. He should worry about Mac discovering the two of them together, and spending the rest of the day sulking and pouting in jealousy.

He should. Dennis really should worry. But right now, it doesn’t feel important.

“Hey, Charlie?” he whispers.

Charlie hums a faint acknowledgment.

“I love you,” Dennis whispers, even quieter.

“I know. Go to sleep, Den,” mumbles Charlie.

And so he does.

**Author's Note:**

> “I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love.”
> 
> — Frank O’Hara, “Meditations in an Emergency”
> 
>  
> 
> (I can also be found screaming into the void on tumblr, where my iasip sideblog is the same as it is here: chrundletheokay)


End file.
